Spartan Run

by David Robbins

  “But is that fair?” Agis queried.

  “Don’t try my patience with the same implied accusation twice,” Agesilaus said. “He opened his mouth to speak again, then stopped when he saw someone coming through the cluster of soldiers. “What is the meaning of this?”

  Blade looked and discovered Major Xanthus returning. The army officer carried a golden goblet in his left hand and an opened bottle of wine in his right.

  “What the hell are you doing with the victory goblet?” Agesilaus demanded angrily.

  “It was my idea,” General Agis said. “It’s customary to toast those who survive the tests, and I thought it would be appropriate to have the goblet on hand should Blade succeed in doing so.”

  The ruler scowled in displeasure. “Only Spartans are entitled to be honored with a victory toast. I’ll be damned if we’re going to give this outsider such a privilege.”

  Major Xanthus held out the bottle of wine. “But what about this, your lordship? I just took it out of the root cellar under the palace, and the wine is still chilled. Do you want me to replace the cork and return the bottle to the cellar?”

  King Agesilaus licked his lips. “The wine is cold, you say?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then we shouldn’t let such a superb beverage go to waste,” the ruler stated, and grabbed the bottle. He raised it to his mouth and swallowed greedily several times.

  Blade noticed General Agis and the major exchange cryptic glances.

  “Ahhhh, this is delicious,” Agesilaus commented, lowering the wine and grinning contentedly. “I believe I’ll finish the rest while the giant runs the course again.”

  “Is that wise, your highness?” Agis inquired.

  “What do you mean?”

  “That wine has been fermenting for decades. It must be quite potent.

  What with all the excitement and this heat, you could become drunk very fast. And we both know that it’s against the law for a Spartan to be inebriated.”

  “I’m beginning to wonder how you’ve managed to last so long as head of the Crypteia,” Agesilaus stated coldly. “Especially since antagonizing your superiors seems to be your forte.”

  “I meant no disrespect, sir.”

  “For your sake, I hope so.” Agesilaus took another swig of wine. “And for your information, General, I can hold my wine better than most.” He gulped even more.

  “My apologies, your highness.”

  The ruler gestured with his hand. “Apology accepted. Now let’s conclude the Marathon. I have other business to attend to, you know.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  Agesilaus tramped eastward, but he went only six feet or so when he suddenly halted, placed his right palm to his forehead, and swayed slightly.

  “Is something wrong, your majesty?” General Agis queried.

  “Perhaps you were right. It’s much hotter than I realized. I’ve broken out in a sweat.”

  “You should sit down and rest.”

  “After the Marathon.” Agesilaus took one more step, then unexpectedly sank to his knees before anyone could catch him. He groaned loudly.

  General Agis, Major Xanthus, and other Spartans closed in about their leader.

  “Are you all right?” the general asked solicitously.

  “I feel dizzy. Never felt this way before.”

  “Perhaps we should carry you inside, sir,” Major Xanthus proposed.

  “I’m fine,” Agesilaus snapped, and tried to rise. Instead, he pitched onto his face.

  General Agis gently turned the monarch over. He glanced at one of the nearby soldiers and issued an order. “Go find the doctor. Have him hurry.”

  The soldier saluted and raced off.

  Perplexed by the turn of events, Blade stood near the bales and observed the tableau unfold. He could see the power monger’s wide, unfocused eyes and hear ragged intakes of breath.

  “What is happening to me?” Agesilaus declared, seemingly directing his question at the azure sky. “I feel so weak.”

  “I’ve sent for your personal physician,” Agis told him.

  “Who said that?” Agesilaus asked, his brow knitting, perspiration coating his skin. “I can barely hear you. Speak up!”

  “I spoke, your majesty,” Agis said. “I’m right here beside you.”

  Agesilaus swung his head from side to side. “Then why can’t I see you or hear you very well?”

  “I have no idea, sir. Please, don’t exert yourself. Stay quiet until the doctor arrives.”

  “I’m suddenly very cold.”

  “Perhaps it’s your heart, sir.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m as healthy as a horse.”

  “What else could it be?” Agis commented innocently.

  Blade suddenly perceived the truth, and the insight shocked him. He looked at the bottle of wine lying on the grass, then at the ruler. The plot had been flawless. He now knew exactly how Agis had lasted so long.

  King Agesilaus arched his back and gasped. “Oh, God!” he cried pitiably, and abruptly broke into violent convulsions, his entire body rocking and bouncing.

  Agis and three troopers tried to restrain the monarch, to keep him still.

  They almost had him pinned down when he screeched in torment, gurgled, and went limp.

  “What’s happened to him?” Major Xanthus remarked in concern, playing his part to the hilt.

  General Agis felt for a pulse, and for five seconds no one else uttered a word or moved. Finally he straightened and shook his head sadly. “The king is dead.”

  “Do you really think it was his heart, sir?” asked one of the soldiers.

  “I do. But you can be certain my office will investigate his death carefully.” Agis stepped over and retrieved the wine bottle. “The first step will be to have this wine tested.”

  Blade was tempted to laugh. How convenient, he thought, that the general should be the one man responsible for the oversight of such investigations.

  General Agis scanned the assembled Spartans. “I believe all of you can fully appreciate the significance of Agesilaus’s death. As of this moment, the civil war is ended. I’ll personally convey the news to King Dercyllidas.”

  “But what about those of us who were assigned to Agesilaus’s bodyguard?” queried a soldier.

  “You’ll report to your barracks and wait there until further notice.

  Agesilaus has a distant relative, a cousin I think, who is next in line to assume his throne. The Ephors will call this relative before them and formally inaugurate him. Whether he retains the current contingent of the Three Hundred will be up to him to decide.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The head of the secret police turned to the Warrior. “You’ll be happy to hear that you won’t need to finish the tests.”

  Blade grinned. “Thank you. I am very relieved.”

  “I’ll be leaving for the barracks housing King Dercyllidas’s bodyguards in a few minutes. Would you care to come along?”

  “I’d be delighted.”

  “Good. You may bring your knives.”

  “There’s another favor you can do for me.”

  “Name it.”

  “I’d really like something to drink.”

  “Anything you want is yours. We want our new allies in the Freedom Federation to feel right at home here.” Agis grinned. “What would you like?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Whatever you have,” Blade said, then quickly corrected himself. “Just so it isn’t wine.”

  “You’re not much of a wine drinker, I take it?”

  “Now and then. At the moment, I’m just not in the mood.”

  General Agis stared at the royal corpse. “I don’t blame you one bit.”

  The SEAL was parked at the base of the steps, both doors wide open.

  Garnered to give the three Warriors a proper send-off were all the important political officials and military officers in Sparta: King Dercyllidas, General Agis, General Leonidas, Major Xanthus, the Epho
rs, Captain Pandarus, and many others. Packed into the public square were the citizens of the city-state.

  “These last four days of discussions have been most productive,” Dercyllidas said. “How soon do you think we can expect, to hear the decision?”

  “The Federation leaders will hold a special conclave and vote formally on Sparta’s admission. As soon as they decide, a delegation will be sent to establish diplomatic relations. I’d imagine that most, if not all, of the leaders will come here for the signing of the treaty.”

  “The date the treaty is signed will become an annual Spartan holiday.

  Unfortunately, we can never fully express our gratitude to you personally.”

  “I don’t deserve special recognition,” Blade said.

  “Yes, you do. All of you do. You acquitted yourselves nobly,” Dercyllidas said, and glanced at the small man in black. “Leonidas told me about your participation in the battle. You slew more opponents than any of our own men. He rates you as the best fighter he’s ever laid eyes on.”

  “The general exaggerates,” Rikki responded.

  “Spartans never exaggerate,” Dercyllidas said.

  “We’d better be going,” Blade stated, casually slinging the Commando over his left shoulder.

  “As you wish. But please remember that if we can ever the of assistance to you or your Family, you have only to say the word. After all the three of you have done for us, we’ll always be in your debt.”

  Rikki-Tikki-Tavi cleared his throat. “If it’s permissible, I’d like to make a request.”

  “Name it and it’s yours.”

  “There was once a Spartan by the name of Sarpedon, a brave, loyal man devoted to Sparta. He was unjustly banished from your city and forced to wander the Outlands. I knew him well, and I can safely say that no Spartan has ever been more worthy of the name.”

  “I’m familiar with his case,” Dercyllidas mentioned.

  “Then perhaps you’ll see fit to grant my request. Sapredon’s name was deleted from the plaque of distinction after his banishment. I came here specifically to ask that it be restored to the position of honor it deserves.”

  The king stared at the martial artist, a tinge of melancholy etching his countenance. “As you wish, so shall it be done.”

  “Thank you.”

  Dercyllidas gazed at the bowman. “And what about you, archer? You seldom speak. Is there anything we might do for you?”

  “No,” Teucer answered.

  “No honor would be too great or too small,” the ruler said, and added partly in jest, “Perhaps a statue would be in order.”

  Teucer chuckled. “Even This Shall Pass Away.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “That’s the title of a poem by one of my favorite poets, a man who lived a couple of centuries ago, Theodore Tilton.”

  “And what did this poet have to say?”

  Teucer surveyed the assembled Spartans, feeling uncomfortable at the idea of quoting poetry in front of so many people he didn’t know. But what difference did it make? he reasoned, and responded to the king’s question.

  “Once in Persia reigned a king, who, upon his signet ring,

  graved a maxim true and wise, which, if held before the eyes,

  gave him counsel at a glance, fit for every change and chance.

  Solemn words, and these are they: ‘Even this shall pass away.’”